


Faceless Prince Charming

by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Consensual, F/M, GUYS, Gentle Sex, he's so pretty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan/pseuds/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating apps can be so. Stressful. (akayachi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faceless Prince Charming

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt I'd gotten on tumblr was basically nsfw akayachi and how gentle I'd imagine he'd be. It was kinda difficult coming up with a way these two would interact in this way but. This ship is just. Gold, you guys.

The profile is simple, the description clean and concise and the icon adequately flattering. She scans her eyes over it repeatedly and is supremely impressed with the amount of thought put into it. Across from her, her friends sit smugly sipping their wine and awaiting her praise. It is a regular Saturday night, and by no means had she been expecting company but she could not refuse the proposition. Some old favorite movies, snacks, and savory drinks with her favorite people is hard to pass up. Sitting there in her pajamas with a discolored band-aid on her elbow was likely the last way she wanted to learn her friends had signed her up to a dating app while she wasn’t paying attention.

Especially with the explicit intent of, “ _Getting you laid_.”

One of her friends leans back and tilts a smile at her. “You’ve been talking about wanting to put yourself out there, so we figured this was the easiest way.”

She wants to argue this, but as things stand she hasn’t comfortably been able to talk to a man without stumbling over her own words in so long she’s forgotten what it feels like. The boys are hardly a comparison, she is treated much like any of them, and at this point they are more like family than anything. And the more she considers dating, the more she realizes she has a certain standard she’d never noticed before.

“It’s all based on personality, for the most part. How compatible you are with another person,” she explains when Yachi doesn’t reply. “You don’t have to agree to anything you don’t want to, but if you ever feel interested, you can get something going easily.”

“What if,” Yachi begins, glancing down at her cellphone anxiously, “what if they’re lying and they’re actually bad people?”

The smile turns comforting. “Feel free to call us as soon as you feel unsafe, even if you haven’t said a single word to the guy.”

.x.

There are a few matches here or there, but nothing that catches her eye. One is from a boy that had sat behind her in grade school that she recognizes now from that chipped tooth he’d gotten during a playground fight, and another is from a very muscular man that she has never seen before in her life and that she highly suspects is almost twice her age. She doesn’t bother reading their bios and she feels guilty for having judged them solely on their appearance that when the next match up chimes from her phone, she avoids looking at their icon or photos and clicks to their profile to read about them instead.

They are also in college, a year older than her, but under a completely different major. Something in the sciences, an impressive name she can’t quite pronounce aloud and so drops midway through in embarrassment. An animal lover, enjoys literature and also happens to like the same genre as her. She bristles in excitement as she reads through their hobbies and only hesitates for a moment before scrolling back up. The icon isn’t a clear photo of them, which brings her some pause. They are clearly male, the background green and lush and bright and the sun sharp on his dark hair and tanned skin. He is angled slightly away from the camera and it is obvious the intended focus is the scenery and not himself.

She is somewhat put off by this, as she suspects he might have a greater reason for not revealing himself more openly to the viewer. But she has already decided she likes him as a person, as far as she knows, and so she bypasses his album and gathers every nerve in her body just to message, “Hi! I noticed you like mystery and horror books! Do you have any favorites?”

It dawns on her immediately after she sends that this is an awful combination and it is very likely he is a murderer waiting to snare her in a trap. Her anxiety spikes and she fumbles to exit out quickly.

But he answers.

“ _Hey. I was actually just looking at your profile, too._ ”

.x.

Two weeks.

Two whole weeks, and she never once looks through his photos. They converse regularly, discussing novels they’d just read or places they’d personally like to go one day and the different types of friends that they have. Favorite foods or colors or movies, the types of pets they’d maybe like to own if they could. She learns he’s working to be a doctor, and that he lives in a big city miles away from here. He used to play volleyball, and she is excited to be able to discuss this with him more in depth. They skirt around jokes and she catches herself smiling sometimes as they learn each other’s humor, wonders if perhaps they’ve taken to flirting now.

He says she’s very lovely one night as they’re in the middle of a conversation about the space program, and she flushes up to the roots of her hair, grins silly and buries her face in her pillow and feels her toes curl in elation. She squeals and struggles around a thank you, but energy bubbles at her chest and she has to take a deep breath.

He is so charming, and polite, and open minded and friendly and when she very timidly mentions equality and of the like, he is receptive and positive and she squeezes her eyes shut as if she doesn’t want to wake from this dream. And it _has_ to be a dream. He is well-versed and respectful and takes every one of her opinions seriously and she feels utterly validated, buzzing at the end of each conversation with the restless energy to know _more_.

The same day he mentions wanting to meet her, she gathers her courage to bring him up as casually as she possibly can to her friends.

They demand to know more and as soon as Yachi begins to mumble and stutter and blush, they demand to see pictures.

Here, Yachi pauses. The curiosity to see the face of the man she has been getting to know chiefly through messaging alone has certainly grow more and more palpable, and certainly with every passing day she begins to put a face to the words that is very likely not his. Perhaps the reason why he chose the one photo _everyone_ can see to _not_ show his face is because he’s insecure about his looks, perhaps he thinks himself or someone else has claimed him _ugly_. Or perhaps he has an appearance that does no match his personality. She never wanted to assume anything about him and, upon considering this further, cannot bring herself to believe she would be so shallow as to reject him, _now_ , because she had finally chosen to see his face.

She does not want to believe these feelings inside of her are so easily broken.

She wants to refuse. Maybe the fear of learning that she is a poor, misled sap is too much for her to take. Maybe part of her doesn’t want to meet him at all, and allow him to remain forever a mystery, her faceless prince charming.

But she knows that she is being cowardly, and to not face this now—to wait until they _meet_ —will fare her worse in the long run.

So she obliges, clicks on his profile and opens up his album.

And very nearly drops her phone entirely.

One of her friends snatches it up before she can with a loud, scandalized gasp. “He’s _gorgeous_.”

The girls swoon over him and Yachi feels her hands grow clammy.

.x.

As soon as she is safely alone in her apartment, she stows away in her room and, with a misplaced sense of guilt, she scrolls through his photos for the first time properly.

The first one is his icon, and when she enlarges it she can more clearly see his defined cheekbone, his nicely angled nose. His hair gleams healthy, these short and aesthetically pleasing curls that walk the line between boyishly messy and neatly kempt. He is perhaps sitting on a rock, staring out at some mountains across the way. Everything looks stunning and natural and lively. The next one, outside some café with an iced coffee in one hand. He wears a gray coat and faded jeans and his other hand is pushing back the inky locks from his forehead. His nose is pink and his eyes are so pretty, so sharp and intense. His skin is flawless and his jawline defined, lips parted as he breathes out into the cold and brow furrowed as if he’d been caught unexpectedly by the person behind the camera. Everything is subdued, muted to the point where he nearly blends into the gray backdrop if not for how striking he looks.

The third is with a couple friends that while look attractive enough by regular standards are completely overshadowed by him. They appear to be teasing him about something, their grins playful and familiar as they seem to reach out to shove at him lightly. And he is smiling in this one, eyes creased at the ends so that his long, long lashes cast shadows down his cheekbones. His brow is pinched and he seems on the verge of laughter.

She recalls him mentioning two friends that seem to fit this description, and she nearly catches herself fact checking him. The entire time, she holds her breath and half hopes this is all a joke. Maybe this perfect man is using someone else’s pictures to make himself up to look more desirable.

She scrolls down to the last picture. He has description at the bottom of the date, and her heart almost stops realizing it was taken just a day before they’d first started talking. It’s the first selfie, in which he appears to be in his own home. He seems to be lying on a bed, the comforter white and fluffy under his head and his hair wild and stark against it. The sun is streaming gently through the window somewhere off screen above his head, and he is wearing a loose knit t-shirt the color of smoke. He is smiling only slightly, as if attempting to look friendly. She can already see he isn’t used to taking photos of himself and so she wonders if he’s comfortable with it at all.

But here, his eyes are glinting and she catches the faintest traces of gray, flecked finely with green.

She breathes out softly.

This has to be a dream.

A message buzzes from her phone loudly and she yelps, quickly exiting his album as if he’s caught her doing something illegal.

“ _I just got off work_ ,” he texts. “ _Did you think it over? Would you like to meet sometime soon?_ ”

She swallows hard. Of course she does, she’s always wanted to. Regardless of how he does—or maybe _doesn’t_ —look, she’s always wanted to meet him in person. This changes nothing, she realizes.

She still likes him very much, just with this added measure of painfully attracted.

“I do!” she messages, and presses a hand over her clenching heart. “I would love to meet you!”

She quietly wonders if he’s smiling, if it reaches his eyes and creases the ends, letting out a shaky sigh when he asks, “ _How about this weekend_?”

.x.

A day or so before, she asks for his number. It takes a few hours for her to build the courage to finally call him, nervously eyeing the shopping bags on her kitchen table. She had spent a good portion of her paycheck on new clothes, all of which she had tried on personally and sent pictures of to her close friends for opinions. Specifically, it was her mother’s decidedly much more experienced commentary that Yachi took the most to heart. She creases back the tissue paper of a smaller bag and steadies her breath.

It catches in her throat when a low voice, smooth as velvet, says, “ _Hey._ ”

“Ah—hi! How are you?” She cringes as her tone shoots up a couple octaves too high.

“ _I’m good, just got out of the shower_ ,” he responds, and she tries to rub the heat from her face. “ _How are_ you _? Did you have a good day?_ ”

“I did!” she exclaims, and then hurriedly tries to reel herself back in. “I—I went shopping with a few friends… I ate frozen yogurt.”

He hums, and it rumbles over the line deep and pleasant.

Brings a shiver straight down her spine.

“ _That’s good_ ,” he says, and she can hear something moving around. Fabric.

“Are,” she pipes up without thinking, and then squeezes her eyes shut as she’s forced to continue, “Are you _naked_?”

A beat passes in silence and she wants so badly for the ground to swallow her whole that she almost misses the small chuckle he makes. “ _Sorry. I answered the phone when I saw your number without really thinking it through. I hope you’re not uncomfortable with this, I could_ —”

“No, it’s totally fine!” she rushes out, voice tight. “Gosh, I must sound like such a pervert…”

Even his laugh is pretty. “ _Of course not, Yachi-san,_ ” he assures, and she can hear a smile in his voice. “ _I can’t wait for Saturday._ ”

She curls a fist into her shirt, right over her dancing heart. “Me neither,” she breathes.

.x.

It is two in the afternoon and he is parked right outside her complex, the nice blue car that gleams in the sunlight. She has alerted her friends and allowed them to talk her down from cancelling on him, and she has to take a moment to calm her breathing before gathering up her bag and stepping out to lock her door. The whole way down her heart is pounding, and the second her phone vibrates with a new message she squeaks and smacks the back of her hand against the wall of the elevator. He is commenting on the good weather and she shakily taps out her agreement. She almost dreads the chime announcing her arrival, and counts her steps all the way to the entrance. She squeezes her eyes shut and steps outside and when she opens them up she nearly backs right back into the doors.

He’s standing by his car where she had expected he’d be inside, staring up at some cottony cloud with a passive look on his face. He is taller than she thought he’d be, dressed up in dark jeans and a gray long sleeve. He’d mentioned the other day that he’d gotten a haircut for the occasion, and the tight black curls look invitingly soft. He reaches up as if to smooth it down some and she lets out a short breath. The movement catches his attention and his eyes snap to hers, locking her in place.

Everything sort of just clicks into place.

“Hi,” she breathes, and his eyes soften toward her.

“Hey.”

.x.

There’s a moment of clarity in which she realizes exactly where she wants this night to go. After she spends the bulk of the day showing him around town, they go for a trip to the local zoo and despite the measly showings he expresses a level of excitement that far exceeds her very low expectations. He’s craning his neck to find the exotic wolf that is very likely taking a midday nap, and she gets caught up in him. The tanned skin, the sharp eyes, the slow parting of his lips as he breathes out softly. His fingers only brush hers as they’re passing a can of soda between them and it is electric, leaves her winded and lightheaded. She wonders if he feels it, too, but it is in this moment she realizes she doesn’t want to see him go before knowing what the skin underneath his clothes looks like.

Or how it’d feel against her own.

He asks her where she wants to eat, and leads him to her favorite place. Some small time burger joint a few blocks from her elementary school, where they share a nice milkshake and he steals her fries. She tells him about how she used to come here _all the time_ , and the myth all towns like this one have about a tree and a kiss and how everyone used to go there _all the time_. He hums and there’s this look in his eyes, this kind and curious gleam. And so this is how they end up under that infamous tree, big and hulking and as familiar as the halls of her grandparents’ home. She steps around the springing roots and searches about in the darkness for the little heart carved in, much lower than she remembers.

“My childhood friend kissed her first boyfriend here,” she tells him.

“Have you ever…?”

“No,” she sighs, dropping her hand and turning to face him. “I never got around to it myself.”

There isn’t very much keeping them from doing it. It’s getting late and the air is turning cold, her heart hasn’t stopped pounding once and every time she looks at him, or hears his voice, or feels his gaze on her, she loses her very breath. It’s so dark out but she sees his figure move, hears the scrape of dirt under his shoes, and feels the warm, rough surfaces of his fingers cradle gently at her face. He tips her head back and he pauses just long enough to ask if he can, if she’s okay with it, if she wants this as much as he does—

And she surges up on the tips of her toes, catches his face and molds her mouth full onto his. There’s that soft, crisp sound of their lips parting in a kiss, and it sets it all in motion. The tilt of his head and his hot breaths on her skin. He deepens it until she is left gasping, reeling at the delicate tug he makes at her hair and the squeeze of his hand on her shoulder. He softly sucks at her lower lip until she whines, and then he snaps back suddenly.

“I—I’m so sorry, Yachi-san,” he says, covering his mouth. “I… I wasn’t gonna go that far…”

Her entire body is throbbing, this burn strongest where his touch now cools over her skin. She licks her lips and feels a new hunger rise as he clears his throat and turns away from her some as if to hide something from her.

“I should drive you home,” he says, sounding ashamed.

“I want to,” she says, voice louder than ever. He stops short to look at her, jolted by this strange, new confidence. “I… I want to, with you. I like you—a lot…”

.x.

           

She hardly has any recollection of getting here, but they are in her bed and she is lying on her side. Yachi’s back is flush against his chest, and while she quietly mourns being unable to see him, the heat of his mouth on her shoulder and his fingers curling tenderly within her overrides that completely. He only pauses to guide her leg back over his hip, pumping and twisting his fingers until she’s trembling, biting into the pillow and gripping his wrist almost hard enough to hurt. He murmurs encouragingly in her ear, places feathery kisses against her hair and so very gently brushes his thumb over her clit. And he is so sweet to her, so careful not to push her too hard, that when she finally comes she almost swears she sees stars.

“Did you like that?” he asks, and his voice sounds so smooth. It falls along her nerves and makes her shiver delicately. He kisses the back of her shoulder, leans back to bring his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

She mumbles incoherently but he doesn’t make her clarify, nuzzling against her ear and adjusting himself around her. He lines himself to her entrance and he can no longer reach certain parts of her with his mouth, and that is the most unfortunate part about her height. He slides his hand down to part her folds, waits until she relaxes again to slowly push inside of her. Inch by aching inch. Her eyes flutter shut and her mouth falls open and his hand jumps to her knee to keep it raised, breathing shakily against her hair. As soon as his skin meets hers, he stops to let her accommodate. She swallows audibly and reaches for his other hand to grip.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and it sounds almost pleading.

She nods her head quickly, snapping her mouth shut for fear of embarrassing herself somehow. He leans in close around her, folding her into him, and kisses her temple softly.

“Would you like me to move now?”

“ _Yes_.”

He pulls out only midway before sliding back in minutely, unhurriedly. There’s that wet noise of skin, but their breaths are louder. The faint hitch in his when she whines. He lets go of her thigh to skim his hand back up, and gently squeezes her breast. He circles his thumb over the nipple and lightly nibbles the shell of her ear. She tilts her head until their mouths can meet, and is so distracted by his tongue she doesn’t notice her thighs fall back shut. He rolls his hips, and then wraps an arm around her to bring her back firmly. He groans faintly when she clenches around him, and presses unsteady sighs against her shoulder. She turns her head and he meets her in the middle, these needy kisses that do not bruise or snap at the edges.

It is a slow burn, this gradual build he feeds with every caress of his fingertips against her clit, every lingering kiss he leaves on her lips or her forehead or her throat, every sweet little nothing he murmurs against her skin.

It goes like light praises, like warm and enticing, like honeyed promises of _more_ —they bring shivers straight down her spine and slip out in a quivering moan, a sharp gasp, a high and trilling, “ _Ah—Akaa—shh_ —”

His fingers pry hers from the pillow, laces between until their partings can no longer accept him, and presses his nose against her temple. She is writhing in his arms, brought on by the languid circles he traces over her clit, the way he pulls out and then sinks back in in this endless cycle. He doesn’t guide her thighs open, sucks air in excitedly when she squeezes them together slightly. She reaches back to hold onto his hip, to guide him deeper into her. He will not hurry his pace, every movement _too much_ and yet _not enough_.

She bucks her hips hard only once and he quickly soothes her back down, rubbing at her hip until she falls back into rhythm, and she can’t tell if this is annoying or not. He is all too careful when he touches her, tender and soft and affectionate. He lightly tweaks at her clit and does not stop until she comes apart, sobbing and whimpering as he continues to thrust, if only a little faster. It’s a sweet high, a thin cloud falling over her. He pulls out to move her onto her back, covering her with his body and guiding her arms around his neck. He lasts much longer than she expects him to, rocking into her and kissing her neck gently. By the time he comes, she’s over sensitized, right on the precipice of finishing again, and he moans breathily into her hair.

While she’s struggling to gather her wits, he quickly disposes of the condom and moves back in between her thighs. “Yachi-san…?”

She curls her toes, holding her breath as he drifts his fingers over her folds. She squeaks as he sinks two of them down to his second knuckles, clawing at the pillow under her head when he twists and curls them toward him. She squeezes her eyes shut and exhales loudly, arching her back as he adds a third finger. “I—I don’t—I don’t—”

“I can stop,” he says, leaning down to mouth along her jawline. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

“No, I just,” she whispers, reaching up to touch his hair. They always spring back into place, thick and feathery against her skin. “It just might take too long…”

He searches her face, and then wets his lips.

A thrill shoots down her spine.

“I’ll go as long as it takes.”

.x.

It is well past midnight when she stirs awake, heart thrumming out toward her fingertips and all along her back. Everything is blissful, too warm and too comfortable and too good to interrupt. She is nestled in the circle of his arms, cheek flush against his chest and eyes fluttering at the even beat lulling her in and out of sleep. His arm is draped heavily on her side and she can feel his breaths on her hair, and he smells heavenly. Something musky and clean, with the faintest traces of cologne. He was kind enough to help her change the sheets, and lent her his shirt to sleep in, but he himself is completely naked, and he sheepishly admitted before they’d settled in for the night that he preferred sleeping without clothes on ordinarily.

Sunday night, he’ll have to start heading back to his own city for work the next day. And she already dreads the hours between them, feels her chest tighten at the thought of going on as before with just phone calls and messages between them until the next time. This feels so natural it’s almost scary, like the friction of his skin against hers or the way he tastes on her tongue is almost familiar. She nuzzles her nose against his chest and kisses him softly, feels him shift against her until she can tuck her face into his throat comfortably.

He hums, and she almost regrets waking him. His lips mold against her temple and he sighs her name.

“Hi,” she whispers, and his laugh rumbles around her warmly.

“Hey.”

.x.

**Author's Note:**

> mmmMMM, bOY


End file.
